


Fuck Music

by therev



Category: Nathan Barley (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-01
Updated: 2010-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therev/pseuds/therev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You run into Jones outside of the club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuck Music

You run into Jones outside of the club, in an alley where you’ve gone to vomit, not from the alcohol though you drank enough. But the words, that idiotic mantra you’d been shouting, they weigh in your belly, lead-heavy, like something you don’t want to know about yourself, and the nausea comes in waves.

“Alright, Dan?” Jones says, putting a hand on your shoulder, leaning into you while you lean onto the brick wall. He’s definitely been drinking, you can smell it on him. There’s a bit of wet on his sleeveless t-shirt and a sloppy grin smeared across his face. You smell smoke on his fingers as he pats your jaw, as if you might need reviving. He hasn’t smoked in ages but you don’t wonder why he has tonight.

“’m going home,” you say, and push off from the wall.

“I’ll come with,” he says, links his arm into yours, skips a little even though you’re lucky to trudge so that he’s jerking your arm like a child. He suggests a taxi even though it’s not a far walk. You don’t really care. You’re not paying.

In the car he sits in the middle, close to you, asks how Nathan’s gig went, if the shite music got any less shite. It didn’t and you say so but you don’t say how you got on stage and acted like the king of all idiots. You don’t mention the mind-searing embarrassment or the nausea that’s washing over you.

“I met some friends,” Jones says, head lolling on the seatback, eyes closed but facing you, as if he can see you through the pale, pink lids. A smile brings cheeks to lashes. “We were drowning in it,” he says.

Your hand is warm on the seat between your bodies and you don’t ask what “it” is.

“You look sad, Dan,” he says softly, eyes open suddenly, face dark and then bright, then red or green from the lights you pass. He brings something small and shiny to his clumsy lips. In another universe you’d call it an ocarina, though you can’t remember where you even heard the word. “I’ve got a cheer-up tune. It may help.”

Soft flute-like noises fill the car and the driver groans. Jones won’t stop, even when you try to talk over the music. Frustrated, you snatch the thing from his hands, his mouth, so that the song ends with a half-winded flutter. Your mistake is that you didn’t realize the instrument was leashed around his neck, so that you’ve also jerked his face to yours. The smell of alcohol is so strong you imagine it thick, viscous, pouring out between the two of you.

“Oh,” Jones says, hot in your face. You pass a club, pounding like a heartbeat, lights strobing in his eyes, so bright and clear, for just a second you think he’s sober. “Just had to say so,” he says at last.

You look down. There’s a hand on your thigh and you wonder how long it’s been there. “You smell nice,” he says into your collar.

“I smell like hypocrisy,” you say, regretting it instantly. What a pretentious twat you are.

“Is that a kind of flower?” he asks, breathing hot against your throat, laughing at first and then not. The hand on your thigh moves up, squeezes you cock through denim and you realize you were already hard. “I love your hair,” he says, takes a bit into his mouth, tugs on it with his lips, slides a leg up over your lap and you’re surprised to find your hand behind his knee, pulling it to you. The taxi slows.

“Alright, boys, none of that,” the driver says but before you know what’s happened Jones has thrown a small wad of notes at him and, after some hesitation, the driver doesn’t complain again.

Then Jones is half in the floor, tugging your legs to stretch you across the backseat and he’s smiling up at you like a child about to win his favorite game and wants you to watch. Hands on your button, zipper, are clumsy but quick and the air on your swollen cock is as much a caress as Jones’s fingers. When he takes you into his mouth he makes a little choking noise and you almost feel guilty but only because he might have noticed how much you enjoyed it.

It’s not that you can’t believe you’re letting him do this, it’s that you can’t even be bothered to pretend.

Barley is fucking Gandhi compared to how reprehensible you are when you come, getting sucked off by your massively pissed best mate. Jones’ mouth is still moving on you, swallowing noisily. It feels so good you hate it, but your hand is gentle in his hair, on his shoulder, under his arm, pulling him up and toward you. You want to say you’re sorry, even though you’re not, you want to take it back, even though you wouldn’t if you could. Then he scrambles up onto the seat next to you, taller than you on his knees, and missing your mouth he kisses your cheek, slides wet lips against stubble until you turn just enough and he’s smiling, fuck, laughing even and you can’t help but kiss him harder until his giggles turn to moans and the driver stops the taxi and tells you to get out and demands his fare.

Jones is heavier than he looks when you half-carry, half drag him to the door. He’s got one arm around your neck and the other between your bodies, massaging himself through his trousers. You know because you can feel his hand moving against your hip.

At the door, you’ve forgotten your keys. You ask for his and he laughs, holds out his hand as if to say, “find them.” You almost push him against the cold door and fuck him senseless with the words “House of Jones” taunting you from above his head, but instead you hold him steady, check his pockets. He takes your hand and presses it hard against his crotch, massaging himself through your hand. After a moment, you mimic his movements.

“Have I got to beg, Dan?” He asks, forehead hot against your neck.

“Do you need fuck music?” you ask, but his laugh is lost in a groan as you take your hand away and fish his keys from a front pocket.

You don’t know when the nausea passed, you don’t know when it will return or how much you’ll regret this.

You don’t know how much he’ll hate you.

You don’t really care.


End file.
